


Dance Therapy

by Sadbhyl



Category: The Pretender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music has powers to sooth the savaged breast</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 2001

Mara Argenti Dance Center  
Bottineau, North Dakota

  
Parker stood in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by reflections of herself. It reminded her so much of the dance classes her mother had made her take as a child. She was tempted to plié, but she resisted.

The studio director returned, a small black duffel in her hand. She was a young woman, willowy and dark. Just his type, Parker thought disparagingly, then stopped herself. What did she care?

“So what did Jarod do here? Janitor?” Her voice dripped acid.

The director handed the bag to Sidney as she answered. “No, not at all! He was a student.”

That surprised her. “A student? In what?”

“A little bit of everything, really. Jazz, ballet, tap. But he mostly focused on the belly dancing classes.”

That surprised all of them. She simply stared at the director, struggling to maintain her composure, then glanced at her companions. Broots looked as though he’d swallowed a frog, his eyes were so big. Sidney hid an enormous grin behind a thoughtful pose, but the mirth in his eyes gave him away. “Isn’t that a bit unusual for a man?”

“Oh, definitely. Jarod was our first. He said it suited his career. He didn’t elaborate, so I assumed he was a lawyer or an investment banker and wanted the flexibility of mind and body that belly dancers develop.”

Parker tried to imagine what he might actually be doing that he would need such a skill, but kept failing as she came up against the image of him in a coin belt and veil.

“Some of the women in the class were uncomfortable with him at first,” the director continued. “But he put himself up front, risked his ego a lot, and the dancers warmed up to him. Some of them even helped him with his moves. Men are hung together differently than women, so he had a difficult time with some of the hip positions.”

“I can imagine.” And she could, picturing middle aged, middle American house fraus giggling girlishly as they put their hands on his ass to adjust him. Instead, she smiled her patented plastic Parker smile. “Thanks so much for your help. We can show ourselves out.” And she turned to stalk out.

She stopped at the car to wait for the rest of the group. “What’s in the bag, Sid?”

He set it on the hood of the car beside her. “Just what you’d expect. Dance manuals, Middle Eastern music, exercise clothes. And a pair of women’s ballet shoes.”

“Your boy having gender identity problems?”

He smiled. “Well, I had always figured him to be well in touch with his feminine side, but . . .” he shrugged, his eyes glinting merrily.

“Great. Just great.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The lab was dark when she came in, which surprised her. She dropped her mail on the table as she continued through to Sidney’s office.

She found the two men there huddled around a flickering monitor, Sidney with a look of scientific fascination, Broots with one of pure awe. “Aren’t you boys a little old to be sneaking off to watch stag movies?”

“Miss Parker!” Broots’ voice cracked as he jumped to his feet, sending his chair over in a crash. He began stabbing at buttons on the VCR frantically, stopping only when the tape clattered to the floor at his feet. He wasn’t quick enough to grab it before she did.

“What have we got here?” she asked, scanning the label on the tape. Social Security, Inc. (cute), The Diamond Exchange, dated about a week ago with a military time code that set it about 11:30 at night. “So?”

“Research downloaded this from a digital surveillance company in San Francisco,” Broots explained, sinking sheepishly back into his chair, which Sidney had thoughtfully uprighted. “It’s actually a really elegant system. Doesn’t require as much storage, but it’s vulnerable to the kind of interception . . .”

Parker snapped her fingers in his face.

“Right. Well, the company provides security services to entertainment businesses in the Bay area. Research was doing a standard visual recognition search when they came up with that,” he indicated the tape in her hand.

“So what is it?”

Broots looked nervously at Sidney, who smiled enigmatically back and shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you should look at it yourself,” Sidney suggested.

She growled impatiently and slammed the tape back into the VCR.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Miss Parker’s House  
Blue Cove, DE

The moment she entered the house, she knew she wasn’t alone. Her pistol was in her hand before the door latch clicked shut behind her. “Show yourself.” But she already knew who it was.

He rose slowly, almost painfully to his feet, the dim light of the accent lamp she’d left lit etching his features in shadowy relief.

Her gun arm sank. “What in god’s name are you doing here?” She recovered her composure, the gun rising slightly. “Decide it was time to come home?”

“Not tonight.” The tiredness of his voice made the words a plea rather than a contradiction, a call for truce. The vulnerability in it pierced her deeply, weakened her mask.

He took a step towards her. “Dance with me.”

The gun rose again, this time as a defense rather than a threat. “Jarod . . .”

“Not tonight, Miss Parker.” This time it was a demand. He reached out and pulled the pistol from her now-unresisting hand, then held his own hand out to her. “Dance with me.” She hesitated, remembering the jealous possessiveness that had overwhelmed her earlier. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want _him_. He was her adversary, her tormentor, hers . . .

Her hand slid smoothly over the warm calluses of his.

He wrapped his fingers around hers, drawing her close enough to slide his other hand around her waist to the small of her back, stepping into her without letting her draw away. Her eyes remained steadfast on his shoulder until he softly murmured her name, the thrill of it making her look up despite her will. And the moment their eyes met, she knew she was lost. For this was only the vessel of Jarod, empty of the intensity, the compassion, the force of will that defined him. She stepped closer to him protectively, the hand holding his drawing their arms into her chest. As though this were a signal he had waited for, his eyes closed in pain and exhaustion and his head dropped into the curve of her neck.

There was no music, only the soundtrack in Jarod’s head, so she gave herself up to his lead. Gently he guided her in slow drifting circles around the room, holding her close, his face buried in her collar. The desperation in his embrace troubled her, and slowly she gave up the anger and resentment she usually protected herself with in his presence, softening and allowing him to draw strength from her. She was surprised to find that she drew equal comfort from him. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself the comfort of physical contact with anyone, and even with Tommy a piece of her was kept isolated, keeping her lonely even in his company. But Jarod knew all her secrets, even ones she didn’t know she was keeping. She rested her cheek against his hair and gave herself up to the music.

Slowly the drifting became more purposeful. Jarod took a deep breath and slowly raised his head to look into her eyes. She was amazed to see the life returned to them so quickly. “Feeling better?” She surprised herself by actually sounding concerned.

“Much, thank you.” He smiled softly.

“Good, then if I can just have my gun, we can get back to business.” She started to pull away from him, but he laughed and tightened his grip on her.

“Not quite yet, I think. I’m enjoying this.”

“And what if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll just have to work on my technique.”

She resisted him but he didn’t relax his grip on her, gently forcing her through a simple box step. The metaphor wasn’t lost on her. Almost from the day she had been moved to this project, he’d been leading her, pushing her, guiding her towards the secrets of her family. How much more could he do for her if she went willingly? Would the metaphor mirror the reality? She relaxed, flowing along with his lead.

He grinned at her, a smile that reached his eyes, and spun with her into an elegant waltz step, swirling with her around her living room. Despite herself, she felt an answering smile brightening her own features. He spun her and pulled her back into his embrace, stepping lightly back and around, round and round, lifting and turning until it seemed her feet barely touched the floor. She matched him step for step, and her proficiency encouraged him to greater complexity, pushing the limits of the rhythm in his head. She finally couldn’t hold it in anymore and laughed delightedly. He spun her around one last time, then drew her comfortably against him, an answering grin lighting his own face.

She couldn’t resist asking. “More lessons from Madame Argenti?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Fred Astaire movies.”

“You know, Ginger Rogers did everything he did backwards and in high heels.”

“You and Ginger have a lot in common.”

“Except for the .357.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush.

“True.” He simply watched her.

Suddenly he dipped her deeply, his strong arm supporting her as he held her there for a moment, then slowly drew her back up. The energy between them changed in that movement, what had been synchronous and flowing now suddenly electric, sparking dangerously.

He held her hips close against his, then slowly slid her down his body, his thigh slipping between her knees as she moved, cocking as she ascended to draw her closer in to him, his hand sliding from the small of her back to her ass to control her movement even more. Holding her steady, he began to sway, a gentle pivot centered at his tailbone, softly caressing her thighs and hips in such a way that flooded her face and extremities with heat. When she didn’t resist him, the sway turned to undulating circles which mirrored the act of sex. With a gasp her head snapped back, her breathing erratic as she gave herself up to the pattern he led. His right hand came up to support her head, fingers tangling in her scalp as his thumb caressed the pulse at her throat.

She couldn’t hold still any longer, and began swaying against him as well, the timing of her movements off from his enough to assure a constant meeting of pelvis, making his arousal all the more obvious to her. And she knew what he was doing. This was the performance he had done in the dance bar in San Francisco, only this time he had a real partner instead of the invisible one his staging had implied. She sank herself deeper into the role, whether as dance partner or lover she could no longer tell and no longer cared. She pushed forward with her left hip, forcing his right side to twist away and then return, pushing deeper into her. The fingers at her nape pulled her down, arching her backwards, holding her there for a moment, then sliding his hand down her throat and between the valley of her breasts to caress the silk covered tension of her belly, then caress back up. She felt his palm twitch as it brushed the soft roundness of her breast, knew he wanted to change direction and stroke it more fully, but that wasn’t part of the dance and so wasn’t allowed. Finally his hand returned to her neck and unbent her.

As she became upright, she slid herself down his body, her thighs holding tight to his leg as she descended, her mouth stopping inches away from his fly to breathe heavy, moist air against the fabric. She reveled in the groan he couldn’t contain. She sidled around him and began the return ascent, caressing the length of his back with her breasts until they came to rest just below his shoulder blades, her arms slipping under his to rest on his chest and belly as she resumed the undulation of their hips, this time with her guiding the motion. His arm came around, and the motion which in his solo had simply accentuated his pectorals proved to be that of reaching back to fondle her behind, holding her tightly to him as they moved, one unit in perfect flow. She understood the frustration he had felt as her hands itched to move lower, exploring the most intimate parts of him. He took her hand, and for a moment she thought he was going to guide her into doing just that. Instead he lifted her arm up and over his head, drawing her back around in front of him. His fingers interlaced with hers, and he slowly, deliberately forced her arms back behind her, thrusting her against him as his head came back down the her neck, his hot, uneven breath charging through her.

They stood there like that for long moments, gently swaying, their bodies silently analyzing the choices their hearts and minds weren’t ready to make. Finally he released her, his hands sliding up her back into her hair to tip her head down for a tender kiss at the crown. He stepped back, his gaze steady, his eyes, while still heavy with desire, also tinged with regret. Her chin came up, her determination to show no weakness asserting itself. They simply regarded each other for long minutes that might have been hours. At last he turned to leave.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

He hesitated, hand on the doorknob. “I needed to remember.”

“Remember?”

“Who I am, what I am, why I’m out there.” He looked into her eyes and read the confusion there. “You haven’t figured it out, have you?” He laughed viciously. “You and Sydney think you know me so well.”

She responded uncharacteristically to the anger she felt from him, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

His head dropped, his free hand reaching up to stroke the smooth surface of her ring. “Whenever a Pretend’s gone bad, or I’ve gone too deep, or I just feel lost in it, I call Sydney, or I call you, and like a splash of cold water, I remember I’m not a doctor or an investigator or a hit man, I’m Jarod, the boy wonder, the lab rat, and I’m out there looking for answers, trying to find out who I am. You are my touchstones.”

“So why did you come?” she repeated. “Why not call?”

He hesitated. “I needed to.”

She saw on his face what that confession had cost him. In another situation, she would have used it against him, but tonight she simply said “Thank you.”

A weak smile was her reward. “Well, we’ll see if you feel the same way the next time I call at two in the morning.”

She gave him her classic cold cocked eyebrows. “I won’t.”

He nodded acknowledgement. “Thanks for the dance,” he said softly, then disappeared through the door.

She wrapped her arms about herself tightly. “Any time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When she went into the sim lab the next morning, she found Sydney and Broots busily at work sorting through half a dozen boxes. “Is this from Jarod’s lair in San Francisco?”

Sidney nodded. “It seems to be the usual paraphernalia,” he added as Broots pulled out a black leather codpiece. He dropped it as if it were on fire when he realized what it was.

Parker grinned. “Not quite the usual, eh, Broots?”

He blushed but said nothing.

She picked through the items on the table while Sidney continued to dig through the boxes. Costume pieces in silk, leather and satin. CD’s of every possibly range of dance music. Stage makeup both tasteful and garish. She tried to picture Jarod in the glittered eye shadow and failed. Anti-gay propaganda literature? “Here it is,” Sidney said, interrupting her reverie as he pulled from the bottom of one of the boxes the ubiquitous red notebook.

“About time.” She snatched it away from him and began flipping through it. The headlines told the beginning of the story. “Male Dancer Killed”, “Gay Club Performer Strangulated”, “Dance Club Killer Still At Large”. On and on, six killings in all. But she knew which one had brought Jarod into this. “Gay Family Shattered By Killing”. The picture showed an eight year old girl, dark hair and bright eyes, holding up a trophy while her two fathers stood proudly behind her. The younger of the pair, Steve Ansley, had been found behind the club where he headlined as a female impersonator, stabbed seventy-two times on both sides of his body. The police still had no leads. From the date on the article, the killing occurred over a month ago.

There was a sketch of the Ashbury section of the city with all of the killings marked in red and their places of employment in blue. There were choreography notes, probably from when Jarod had designed his floor show. A list of names and addresses (suspects maybe?). And the final entry, another clipping, this time from the front page. “Night Club Killer Caught: Killing spree driven by bias”. The killer had been a dresser at one of the clubs, the one Jarod had danced at. According to his confession (no doubt one of Jarod’s classic set-ups, although the details weren’t given), he had seen it as his obligation to the straight world to infiltrate and observe in these clubs. He had killed the men he had because they weren’t “properly ashamed” of their lifestyle, choosing instead to be very proud and public about it. And this was who Jarod had had to pretend.

Sidney scanned it over quickly when she had finished. “This had to be especially hard on him,” he said, shaking his head sadly as his eyes ran down the page. “He’s accustomed to dealing with negative emotions directed at an individual, or positive emotions drawn from negative acts, but this kind of broadly focused bigotry may be too deep, even for him”

Which was why he’d needed to come to her and not just call. “Well, be sure to let us know if little boy lost calls home, won’t you, Sid?” He frowned at her, but she didn’t allow herself to respond. Some secrets were worth keeping. “Meanwhile, Broots, stay sharp. If he is shaken up, he may do something stupid that’ll work in our favor.” She started up the stairs to the main lobby and her office. “Oh, by the way,” she paused on the landing, “ you might want to tidy this up,” she indicated the clutter on the lab tables. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you boys had developed a new hobby . . .” She was rewarded with a shake of the head from Sidney and a deep scarlet blush from Broots.

When she got to her office, there was an overnight package waiting for her. Typed label, public Philadelphia drop point, nothing to identify the sender. Her adrenaline began flowing as she ripped open the envelope and dumped out the contents.

The only thing to fall out was a CD jewel case. She double checked the envelope, then dropped it in the trash. The case itself was still shrink wrapped, the only modification being a yellow sticky note attached to the front which read “Save a dance for me.” The CD was a collection of swing dance tunes.

She grinned delightedly. She was looking forward to next time.


End file.
